


A Nearly Perfect Record

by yellowwarbler



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27841234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowwarbler/pseuds/yellowwarbler
Summary: Ridiculous. Absolutelyridiculous. The man Slade didn't even believe in managed to hijack his security measures and slip in and out without even being seen. He might as well have been bested by Santa Claus.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Slade Wilson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 108
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	A Nearly Perfect Record

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romiress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/gifts).



> Thanks to [Stvlti](https://stvlti.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this! 
> 
> Romiress, your Bruce/Slade prompt was super inspiring. I wish I'd had time to write about 20k words more! Hope you enjoy this :)

There's nothing like an easy job.

Slade grabs a flute of Luthor's thousand dollar champagne and takes a sip. A glance at his watch shows him none of his security measures have been triggered since his last sweep. Wintergreen is remotely monitoring video surveillance. There's a close to zero percent chance of so much as a hiccup on this job. Fifteen million for keeping an eye on one of the most secure buildings in the world? Slade might as well be on vacation.

"How are we looking?" he asks, using the flute to cover his mouth.

" _Still clear_ ," Wintergreen reports. " _Have I mentioned this is about as invigorating as watching paint dry? What is Luthor expecting?_ "

Frankly, Slade didn't care. All he has to do is make sure Luthor's private server isn't tampered with while his building is full of guests. "Keep me posted," he tells Wintergreen, ignoring the rest.

Wintergreen scoffs and cuts the line.

Luthor's paranoia is typical of someone who's both desperate for power and never learned to make friends. Whatever he thinks is going to happen, if it _did_ happen, would likely be well-deserved.

The guest list itself is nothing noteworthy, at least not for a LexCorp event. Slade went over every name, including the plus ones, and came up empty handed. Big names in business, celebrities, renowned scientists--Slade is standing in a room full of people who share a common denominator: very deep pockets.

Slade is present as a security contractor, and he spends his time between mingling in the crowd and running checks on Luthor's server. The physical server itself is about the size and weight of a car, but it splits into pieces and follows a randomized track built into the walls of the building, always at a different location, coming together in a single random location for five minutes once a day. To figure out where it is at any given time, a person would need Luthor's credentials on the system. 

Just as he heads back into the main hall, the door bursts open and someone comes barreling into Slade. 

"So sorry," the man says, moving to pat Slade's arm and pouring champagne down his chest instead. "Whoops!"

Slade manfully resists the urge to gut the fool. Bruce Wayne, no doubt. He'd barely looked twice at the name during the initial background checks of the proposed guest list. Bruce Wayne is a clown of the lowest calibre.

"Had a few too many?" Slade asks, forcefully righting the man on his feet.

"Wow," Bruce says, looking Slade up and down. "You're pretty strong. It's been a while since anyone's been able to manhandle me like that."

 _Clearly_ drunk. But up close, Slade's got to admit Bruce isn't bad looking. His suit is ill-fitting and he can't seem to stand up straight, but where Slade's holding him up, there isn't an ounce of softness. Pretty boy probably has a personal trainer who chases him around his home gym.

Bruce mistakes Slade's silent focus for something else entirely and leans in even closer. "If _that's_ what you're after," Bruce says, grinning, "then I know a place." He tries to pull Slade along with him down the hall.

Slade doesn't have time for cavorting with Gotham's own royal idiot, but he can't deny there's something satisfying about the idea of getting a piece of that.

And he _is_ basically surplus to requirements for this job…

 _Fuck it_ , Slade thinks. Fifteen minutes won't kill him. He taps the button on the side of his watch in the pattern that informs Wintergreen he's going radio silent before letting Bruce lead him into an empty office.

"I met Lex in here just last week," he tells Slade cheerfully. "Hostile negotiations, you know. And he thought he could bribe me with--"

His face is pretty enough, but if Slade has to listen to him speak much longer, he might have to reconsider the not hitting him thing. He kicks the door shut behind them and crowds Bruce against the wall, grinding into him. "Shut up, Wayne."

"Oh, call me Brucie," the idiot says, then kisses Slade like a man drowning.

Slade nips at Bruce's lips, fucking his tongue into his mouth as he tugs Bruce's shirt out of his slacks and shoves off his suit jacket. Bruce lets his head fall back against the wall with a full thud, his hands digging into Slade's hair, trying to pull Slade's mouth where he wants it.

As if _Bruce Wayne_ is the one in control here.

Grabbing Bruce by the hair, Slade scrapes his teeth over his neck then nudges him down. Bruce takes the hint like a pro and drops to his knees, letting his hands drag down Slade's body. 

"What can I call you?" Bruce asks. Then he drags Slade's zip down with his teeth.

Not bad. "Slade," he says, unable to take his eyes off Bruce. He looks good on his knees, better still when he pulls Slade's cock out and licks the head. 

"Always good to meet a friend of Lex's," Bruce says, jacking Slade's cock. He's undeniably hard now, even with Bruce's inane babbling.

When Bruce goes down on his cock, Slade expects an inexpert blowjob at best, as sloppy drunk as he is. But then he watches him keep going, right until his nose is buried in Slade's groin. He groans around Slade's cock. 

"You're surprisingly good at this, Brucie," Slade murmurs. He digs a hand into that thick dark hair and tugs. Bruce goes slack, letting Slade pull him back and forth on his dick, fucking his face. 

He wishes he had more time. What Slade wouldn't give to throw Bruce over a table and rip those baggy slacks off of him. He'd fuck Bruce stupid. But he couldn't waste any more time on a fuck. Slade could see Bruce's arm working, a rapid jerking motion. He's getting off sucking Slade's dick. Less work for Slade.

With a final thrust, he comes right down Bruce's throat, his grip in the man's hair keeping his cock as deep as it can go. Bruce's throat spasms around him as Bruce's groans, drooling. His body shakes and then goes limp.

Slade lets him go, and Bruce slumps down, knees splayed. His softening cock is out, still in hand. His come is on the carpet. 

"Not bad," Slade says, tucking himself away. "Not bad at all, Brucie."

Bruce seems to finally catch his breath, and he braces himself on the wall, getting to his feet unsteadily. "Too bad we don't have a bed," Bruce says. He's laughing again. "I bet you're a hell of a ride. Look me up next time you're in Gotham."

"I'll be sure to do that," Slade lies. But he still takes Bruce's business card when it's offered.

He leaves Bruce to get himself together and returns to the main hall after checking in with Wintergreen. Bruce stumbles in three minutes later looking just barely less of a mess than Slade left him. 

" _I repeat_ ," Wintergreen's snappish voice says from the comm in Slade's ear. " _Paint. Drying._ "

"It's an easy fifteen mil," Slade mutters back. "Be grateful it wasn't a League contract." Another check of his watch assures him his systems are all still armed. 

Like he thought: an easy job.

__________

"When I paid for your services, I was expecting _competence_ ," Luthor snaps, throwing a file down on his desk.

Slade grabs the file and flips it open, frown deepening. "Impossible. No one gets past me." 

"Well, clearly someone did!"

Loathe as Slade is to admit, the evidence isn't in his favor. In the front of the file is a news article by Lois Lane on Luthor's supposed involvement in supplying terrorist organizations with anti-meta weaponry, published this morning. Slade knows there's no _supposed_ about it. 

"They can tie me directly to three separate instances that resulted in major damages to Metropolis," Luthor says, seething. "And that's the tip of the iceberg! There's no telling what he'll do with the rest of the information stored on that server!"

"He?" Slade tucks the files under his arm. "You know who did it?" God, he hopes so. Slade's never failed a mission. Whatever self-righteous dick managed to get past him, Slade wants to know exactly where to find them. There won't be a repeat.

"Of course." Luthor grabs something from his desk and tosses it to Slade. "This was found at the breach."

Slade inspects the object: a small piece of metal, black, shaped like...a bat.

"Batman is a myth," he says, testing the sharpness of the object with a prick of his finger. A bead of blood wells up on his fingertip. "No one has ever proven otherwise."

"He and Superman seem to do all right for a couple of urban legends," Luthor says drily. 

Ridiculous. Absolutely _ridiculous_. The man Slade didn't even believe in managed to hijack his security measures and slip in and out without even being seen. He might as well have been bested by Santa Claus. "I'll take care of him."

"You'd better." Luthor settles back in his chair, apparently done with the frantic pacing. "Or I'll be sure to take that fifteen million back along with the tatters of your professional reputation."

Slade leaves Luthor's building ready to pump the first person who slightly inconveniences him full of lead. When he gets in the car and barks at Wintergreen to drive, Wintergreen looks unimpressed.

"I take it things didn't go well."

"I failed a job," Slade says. "I've never failed a job."

Wintergreen pulls into traffic, heading back toward the interstate. "You're good at what you do," he says after a few moments of silence, "but you and I both know that isn't everything." He glances at Slade's covered eye, then back to the road. "Where to?"

"Gotham," Slade says. "I'm going to kill Batman."

"Of course," Wintergreen says. "Might I suggest you buy a copy of the National Enquirer? It was only a matter of time before Batboy moved up in the world."

"Just shut up and drive."

He flips the file open on his lap and shuffles the article out of the way, revealing a page of schematics. "Somehow, he figured out how to physically access the server from outside of the building. They found that an access port usually used for maintenance had been tampered with. Trouble is, the Bat's supposed to be a grown man. So how the hell did he fit in there? And how did he even know where to go?"

"He must have cased the place before we got there," Wintergreen points out. "We'd have noticed a man in a bat suit while we were setting up last week."

Slade can't argue that. He and Wintergreen had been there for a week, monitored _everything_ about the gala, right down to the catering crew and the janitorial staff. Nothing happened in that building Slade didn't know about.

Except, apparently, this.

"It isn't possible. He had to have been there without the suit. Which means Batman's actual identity is tied up in this."

"Presumably."

"There's no _presumably_ about it," Slade snaps. "No one who came through that building had an identity we couldn't verify. That means I've seen his face. His _real_ face."

"So we're looking for someone with ties to LexCorp, is a grown man living in or around Gotham, and can fit through a three foot diameter maintenance port. Should be simple."

"I'll find him. Who had ties to Gotham?"

"Several businessmen," Wintergreen says. "Most obviously--"

Slade groans and drags a hand down his face. "Wayne. Right. Well, mark that one off our list."

"You never know," Wintergreen points out, his lips twitching. "Beneath that bumbling exterior, he could be a formidable warrior."

Slade knows _exactly_ what's under that bumbling exterior, thanks ever so much, and it is _not_ a secret vigilante. But on the other hand…

Abruptly, he sits up and starts digging through his duffle. He ignores Wintergreen's startled look and pulls out the trousers he'd worn to the gala.

"Slade--"

"I've got it," Slade announces, digging his hand into the pocket. The card is still there, albeit a little crumpled. "I ran into Wayne," he tells Wintergreen, glossing over the exact details of the meeting. "He gave me his card, told me to look him up if I was ever in Gotham."

"I don't follow."

"Batman has to have money," Slade explains. "A lot of it. Luthor showed me a piece of the gear the guy left behind. It's good quality. So Batman either _is_ wealthy or he's sponsored by someone wealthy."

"You think Wayne is Batman after all?" Wintergreen looks dubious.

"No," Slade scoffs. "But he _is_ old money, the oldest Gotham has. He might not realize it, but Wayne has the connections to figure out who this guy is. And I intend to make good use of Wayne."

It's the perfect cover. Wintergreen's skepticism aside, he and Slade spend the following week setting up shop in Gotham. The Batman doesn't make a single appearance. They run a cross-reference of all of the guests with anyone with a Gotham or Gotham-adjacent address within the last three years since rumors of the vigilante first spread. The list narrows further when they pull the potential suspects' financials.

Five names, all men between 23 and 40 with considerable financial advantages. 

It still doesn't account for _how_ he got in through the maintenance port, but Slade isn't put off by that. There's tech available for remote access. 

Calling Bruce Wayne is the next step.

As best as Slade can tell, Bruce is peripherally connected to each of the five men. Hell, he's connected to every big name in town. It's nearly enough for Slade to consider that perhaps Bruce is the Batman's sponsor, but he can't find anything in Wayne Enterprises or its financials to suggest anything untoward--at least as far as illegally funding a vigilante goes. Someone is scraping off the top of WE's research and development budget, as well as a few other sectors, but as far as Wintergreen's found, all sources point to a personal investment in stocks. Inside trading holds no interest for Slade. 

No, it's much more likely that Bruce _isn't_ involved with Batman's operations on a personal level. But he might know the man behind the mask.

So Slade calls him around ten in the morning on Saturday. Bruce picks up on the third ring, yawning midway through his greeting, "This is Wayne."

"Brucie," Slade says. "This is Slade. We met at Lex's last event."

A noticeable pause. Slade waits patiently for Bruce to recall the man he'd drunkenly sucked off in an empty LexCorp office. Then, "Slade! Haha, wow, it's good to hear from you! What can I do for you?"

"Well, as it happens, business has brought me to Gotham, so I thought I'd take up your offer. Think you have time to show me around?"

Slade had taken into account that Bruce could blow him off. It would be a setback, but not a real blow to his plans. Bruce Wayne's name will get him into places he'll otherwise have to break into.

"I can think of a few things I'd like to show you," Bruce says slyly. "Where are you staying?"

"The Royal," Slade tells him. "West tower, twentieth floor."

"Perfect. I'll pick you up," Bruce says. He sounds unexpectedly eager for someone who Slade barely put his hands on. "Tonight at eight?"

Plenty of time for Slade to prepare. "Sounds good. Looking forward to it, Brucie."

"I take it he fell for it?" Wintergreen asks from where he's sitting on the couch, cataloging his ammunition.

"Hook, line, and sinker. You got the wire ready?"

Wintergreen holds up a small device. "You'll wear it like an earring," he explains. "I can rig up something for video, but if your encounter goes anything like your last one--"

Slade snatches the device and scowls at Wintergreen. "I'll do what I have to."

"And what a sacrifice that will be."

He isn't wrong. Fucking Bruce wouldn't exactly be a hardship, and it's clearly what the man has in mind for Slade if his lascivious tone is anything to go by. But Slade could care less who he has to fuck to get the job done. If it gets him Batman's head, he could summon the will to fuck Luthor, too.

Again--not the point.

Slade holds up the recording device and gets a good look at it. It's exactly like an earring. He pulls the backing off to expose the needle and, shrugging, pulls the lobe of his right ear and shoves it through. He fumbles the backer on and swipes the little bit of blood seeping out around the edges and considers the situation.

"Video isn't doable," he agrees. He can manage to get away with the knife in his boot and a handgun without much problem. They _are_ in Gotham. But anything more and even a fool like Brucie Wayne might get suspicious.

"I'll have eyes on you," Wintergreen says. "And the targets. If you bring him back, best not to mention I'm in the next room."

"You're enjoying yourself too much," Slade grumbles. "Your cut is as on the line here as mine is."

When the time comes, Slade waits in the Royal's lobby until Bruce texts him. He steps out into the dark Gotham night and lays eyes on what is possibly the most beautiful car he's ever seen. It's clearly a custom Lotus, barely like any model on the market. The license plate says WAYNE. 

While he's admiring the car, the door lifts upward on the passenger side. "A beauty, isn't she?" Bruce is grinning broadly at him. 

"I can't fault your taste," Slade says, climbing in. The door lowers as soon as he's inside. "Where to?"

Bruce rattles off the name of a French restaurant as he pulls out of the hotel's valet lane and onto the streets. "You'll love it," he assures Slade. 

They chat amiably during the drive and well into the meal. Bruce seems dead set on turning everything into innuendo. Every time Slade probes him for details on his suspects, Bruce, seemingly by accident, reinforces that each one couldn't possibly have been involved. Jack Asper has a permanent limp due to a polo accident. Andrew Rutger was undergoing chemo during the first two years Batman was active. One by one, he obliterates Slade's list, leaving him potentially empty-handed. 

It's amazing what keeping up with the local gossip can do.

"What are the chances of seeing the Batman tonight?" Slade asks, glancing out the wide windows framing the front of the restaurant.

"You believe in him?" Bruce looks charmed. 

"You don't? I thought you Gothamites were all about the Bat."

"Nah, can't be real," Bruce dismisses the idea. "Who would choose to dress like a _bat_? I mean, of all animals?" 

"Not a fan?" 

"I'm terrified of them," Bruce says. It's probably the most personal thing he's said to Slade all night.

As dinner winds down, Slade has half a mind to call the night a dud. Bruce is doing the exact opposite of what Slade wanted. He's not giving him nothing. Rather, two hours of conversation with the man has reduced all of Slade's theories to dust. 

But then, they get in the car and Bruce says, "Your place or mine?" Slade remembers how he'd wanted to bend Bruce over the desk. 

He might as well get _something_ out of this waste of a night, even if it's only the chance to take his frustrations out on Bruce.

"Mine," Slade says. 

When they get to the hotel and Slade carefully steers Bruce away from the room Wintergreen is holed up in, Bruce wastes no time in dragging Slade onto the enormous bed in the master suite. They'd shed their shoes and jackets on the way in. Bruce lets Slade tear off Bruce's shirt with a startled laugh, leaning up to shrug it off his shoulders.

He looks solid, just like Slade thought. Not an ounce of body fat on him. There's an interesting scar on his lower abdomen. Bruce undoes his pants and shoves them down his thighs obligingly, his cock peeking out over the band of his boxers.

"I played lacrosse," he says as if that explains everything. Hell, maybe it did. What rich people got up to in their youth is still somewhat of a mystery to Slade. "Did you ever play? Great sport. Actually, at Gotham Academy I--"

Slade kisses him just to shut him up. Bruce arches into him, as easy as he was the first time. 

They manage to get out of their remaining clothes, and for the first time that night, Slade feels himself relaxing. He's been wound so tight since that job went wrong. He grinds into Bruce, watches the way Bruce throws his head back, groaning. He's beautiful out of those poorly fitting suits, tan and wonderfully hard against Slade, and so very compliant.

And then Slade is on his back.

There's a moment where Slade is so caught unaware that it alarms him. Then the moment ends and Bruce is looking down at him, looking very pleased with himself. "Good thing we have that bed now, huh?"

Slade raises a brow at him. 

Bruce noses at Slade's neck as his hand drags over the flat plane of Slade's stomach to grasp his cock. Slade tilts his head back and lets Bruce work, exhaling a sharp breath when Bruce starts jacking him off, rutting against Slade's thigh.

Why the hell not. Slade figures he deserves a break for all the bullshit he's been putting up with.

"Not that this isn't great," Slade groans between kisses, breaking off to fuck his tongue into Bruce's mouth. "But any chance of you actually fucking me?"

"Very good chances," Bruce assures him. He pulls away from Slade and leans over the bed, coming back up with two packets. He rips the condom package open and rolls it on, his eyes trained on Slade.

Slade rolls over and gets up on his knees. "Any time now, Brucie."

Bruce slaps his thigh and drapes himself over Slade's back, nipping at his ear. "Good things come to those who wait."

What is he, a fucking fortune cookie? It occurs to Slade he won't be able to shut Bruce up in this position, but before he can go any further with that thought, Bruce is off him. He feels Bruce spread him open, his breath against Slade's hole.

Bruce drags the flat of his tongue over Slade's hole. Slade drops his forehead to the bed, shifting his hips back for more. He can _feel_ Bruce's grin. Then Bruce spears his tongue into Slade, thumbing his rim while he thrusts his tongue in and out. 

Slade's toes dig into the sheets. Fuck, Bruce is good at this. He can feel saliva dripping down his crease. He can't remember the last time someone ate him out like this. 

A finger slides in alongside Bruce's tongue. Slade tries to shift again, to ride Bruce's tongue, but Bruce's free hand clamps down on Slade's hip, holding him steady. 

Slade reaches under himself and grabs his dick. He's wet at the head. When he fucks into the circle of his fist, he slides easily. It's good, so fucking good. Bruce has three fingers in him now, stretching his hole around his tongue. He can't keep Slade still anymore, letting him ride his face.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Slade's so close. But first--

"Get on with it," Slade demands, his voice raw with need. "Get your dick in me already."

"Yes, _sir_ ," Bruce says facetiously as he sits back, but before Slade can call him on it, he hears the sound of Bruce fucking his own fist, then feels the slick blunt head of his cock against Slade's hole.

Bruce bottoms out in one thrust, punching the air out of Slade. He doesn't leave room to recover, drawing back and pushing in again just as fast, setting a bruising pace.

Slade rocks back and forth with the thrusts, fucking back into Bruce just as hard. Bruce's hands fall to his hips, then he leans over Slade, pressing his chest to Slade's back, one hand planted on the mattress, the other grasping Slade's side.

Slade fucks into his fist one last time before shooting across the sheets, his body shaking with the force of his release. He hears Bruce groan as Slade's body squeezes his dick, feels Bruce's teeth dig into the meat of his shoulder as he goes over the edge after him.

For a moment, Slade just breathes, enjoying the weight of Bruce on him and in him, the feel of his body pressed so close. Then the moment ends. Slade shrugs Bruce off and feels him slide out before rolling onto his side. He watches Bruce tie off the condom and toss it toward the waste bin, which he misses by a good two feet. Bruce looks at him sheepishly.

"I guess I should get going," Bruce says after a beat. "I've got a meeting early tomorrow that the board may actually hang me for missing." 

"You've got my number," Slade says. Not true, of course. He'll ditch that burner when the job's done. But Bruce doesn't need to know that.

"Call me," Bruce says. He gets his clothes on and leaves. Slade listens until he hears the door to their suite close.

"Are you decent?" Wintergreen calls after a few minutes.

Slade finishes buttoning his pants. "Am now," he calls back.

"Well, your tryst with Wayne was good for one thing," Wintergreen says, emerging from the other room with his laptop in his arms. "The list we came up with was entirely useless."

"I figured that. Back to square one."

"Worse. Consider that our first encounter with Batman was in Metropolis, Slade." Wintergreen puts the laptop on Slade's bed. "There are rumored sightings of him across New Jersey and New York, one in Chicago, and another slew of sightings in the Middle East."

"Shit. He might not be Gotham-based." Slade sits on the bed. He scrolls through the information. "Thoughts?"

"Given the description of his fighting style, which seems to be consistent across most accounts, he's been formally trained. I think we should follow up on the Middle East. I wouldn't be surprised if the League's had dealings with him."

Because of course Ra's would know the nut in the batsuit. "It's worth looking," Slade admits. He'd turned up nothing but dead ends in Gotham. 

On the table, his phone chimes. Slade looks at it and sees it's a text from Bruce. He picks the phone up and crushes it in his fist.

"We leave in the morning," he tells Wintergreen. No point in wasting anymore time here. 

After all, he's got a score to settle.


End file.
